


Were-yak

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack Fic, M/M, Yaks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-28
Updated: 2006-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More from the Great Yakfucking Debacle of 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Were-yak

*

At this point, Dean’s got the whole slinking-through-a-treacherous-landscape-at-night thing down to an art form. Only in this case, the treacherous landscape is a field full of livestock. Or at least the corner of the field is full of livestock, all crowded together away from the people currently slinking through their usual territory. The field itself is full of livestock shit, same colour as the muddied and hoof-torn grass underfoot. Fucking _treacherous_ alright.

“There’d better be some clean grass by the car, is all I can say,” Dean offers over his shoulder, as another layer of yak-dung is added to the coating on the sole of his boot with a resounding _squelch_. “And I don’t know why we couldn’t have done this during the _day_.”

There’s a heavy sigh from behind him, the first sound in a while, which is a good thing. Sam’s almost as good at the slinking thing as Dean is. “Because _something_ is letting the livestock out at _night_, Dean,” he says.

“Yeah, and you’re yet to convince me what we’re doing here _at all_.”

“Because there’s no one else for miles, no signs of tiretracks or anything and yet every morning the herd’s a considerable distance from home.”

“Like someone led them,” Dean sighs, intonations like he’s providing the last line of that particular nursery rhyme.

“Like someone led them,” Sam confirms.

He was right, though, there was no one else for miles. Just these hillbilly farmers, half-animal themselves from the way they smelled. And the way that scraggly brat had up and bit Sam on the hand for offering her candy.

Dean laughs involuntarily. Screw slinking, that was fucking _funny_. Not that Sam had thought so. In fact, he’d bitched and moaned about it for the next two hours until sundown. As soon as they’d left the old homestead, that was. Of course Sam would never bitch and moan in _polite_ company.

“So you figure it’s some pied piper deal?” Dean asks as the moon rises and the field around him lightens considerably, thank god, allowing him the ability to avoid at least some of the yak shit. Yaks, honestly. Why the hell were some hillbillies out in the middle of nowhere raising _yaks?_ Maybe the yaks were walking through the fence and so goddammed far because they were trying to get back to Tibet, or Argentina, or wherever the hell yaks come from. Dean frowns. “Yo, Sam,” he says. “I said, you figure it’s some pied piper deal?”

There’s still no response, and Dean stops, sighs, turns around. Then gives an entirely undignified yelp and leaps backwards. There’s a squelching sound as his feet land. “Mother_fucker_.”

One of the goddamn yaks has decided to separate from the herd and come to see what the hell those things traipsing through its shit are. _The little yak that said it could._ It’s like some goddamn kid’s book. The yak’s staring at him. _Are you my mom?_ Dean shakes his head, laughs a little. Peers around behind the yak. Frowns again.

“Hey, _Sam!_”

There’s no answer. Dean walks around the yak and it snorts a little, turns around with him. Sam is not hiding behind the yak. Dean peers to the huddle in the far corner of the field. Knowing Sam’s history and his propensity to play daddy warbucks with stray animals, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if Sam was already attempting to coo and cajole the goddamn yak back to its own people without so much as a by-your-leave from Dean.

“You little shit!” Dean cups his hands around his mouth and shouts toward the herd. “What the hell are you doing?”

He swears and leaps again when there’s a warm, solid nudge to the back of his ribs. The yak’s alarmingly close to him now, still staring at him with big, wet eyes, huge lashes and a messy thatch of hair tousled down from between its horns.

“Okay, dude,” Dean says to it, holding both hands up. “_So_ not funny. Whatever you want, I don’t have any, okay? Now just… go on back to your cousins or whatever.” He half-turns away, facing the other side of the field, peering. “_Sammy!_”

He stumbles a bit with the force of the nudge this time, and the yak’s snorting - aw, cmon, that was Dean’s last clean shirt - and pawing the ground a little with its hoof. Dean had thought that the spectrum of bovine expression ranged between two very close points of _anxiety_ and _boredom_, but this one’s starting to look a little mad. Mad and familiar.

Dean takes a step back, eyes widening as he stares at the yak fully, now. It takes another few ambling steps forward, nudges at him with its nose again. It’s a fucking huge thing, giant shaggy shoulders with horns spanning out just as wide, fluffy ears beneath them. Wide, damp nose. Desperate, desperate eyes.

Dean leans forward a little, glances around him one last time. “Sam?” he near-whispers.

The yak - Sam - jerks his head up and clocks Dean on the underside of his chin. It fucking _hurts_, enough to immediately kill off any potential laughter that the situation - come on, it _so_ does - merits.

“Motherfucker!” Dean curses through a hand over his mouth, and jesus christ it’s lucky he didn’t bite clean through his tongue with that one. “That was _so_ unnecessary.” And then he stops mid-sentence, staring wide-eyed to the far side of the field. The yak herd’s moving, solid mass fluid in the moonlight. A smaller figure gambols in front of it, a smaller _yak_, and even as he watches it wriggles through a gap underneath the lower bar of a fence. A few moments later there’s a loud crashing sound as the herd, en masse, just go right on through the fence without even pausing.

Dean only realises when they’re out of sight that his hands are wound tight in the shaggy hair of Sam’s yak shoulders, but Sam’s not going anywhere. The massive body shifts a little, one hoof stomping solidly.

Dean looks back at him, sighs. “There wasn’t a yak calf before, was there?” Sam just stares. “It was that hillbilly kid, wasn’t it?”

They stand silently, awkwardly, in the now-empty field, and then Dean says, “You are _so_ not riding in my car.”

Luckily the hillbillies have a barn, one that’s really not too hard to break into, though that only becomes an option after Dean’s suggestion of “Well what the hell do you want me to do, Sam? _Ride_ you back to the motel?” is soundly rejected.

Sam’s actually not that difficult to read, as a yak. (_As a yak,_ Dean’s brain reiterates somewhat hysterically, and not at all helpfully.) Dean can’t figure out if that’s awesome or disturbing, but that could be just because it’s so freaking _cold_ now that they’ve stopped slinking, and moving in general.

Sam’s breath huffs out in big, loud clouds of steam, Dean’s teeth start to chatter.

“You’ll be back to normal in the morning, right?”

Sam’s huge head bobs a little. The hair flutters. In hindsight, Dean’s surprised that the hair alone didn’t clue him in right away.

“So, you sleep standing up or what?”

Sam ambles closer to where Dean’s half-curled up in the loose hay, kneeling awkwardly before dropping his heavy body to the ground. He smells like hot, damp animal, and almost puts Dean’s eye out with one long, curved horn.

“Dude,” Dean says, flailing out a bit as if to prevent any goring, his hand landing on Sam’s head. It’s pretty warm, and he wriggles his fingers deeper into the fur. Sam drops his head onto Dean’s thigh, and Dean sighs, scritching.

When another shiver shudders through Dean, Sam lifts his head again, and Dean can’t help but laugh at the attempt of a yak to _wriggle_ closer.

“Hey,” Dean says softly when Sam has somehow managed it, and Dean’s getting weird mental images of lounging on a shaggy fur rug in front of an open fire. “Your breath _stinks_.”

Sam licks his face. His whole goddamn face, Sam’s tongue is that fucking big, and hot and wet and okay, a little slimy.

Dean splutters, attempting to not lick his own lips. “No,” he says, shoving at Sam’s immovable yak shoulders. “No, fucking _no_, okay? Sam, that’s… jesus, I can’t believe you just did that, you’re not a fucking _dog_ or something, Sam, you’re a _yak_, and _**no**_.”

And there’s another bovine expression to add to Dean’s mental anthology. He wipes at the yak-spit on his face and sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. But don’t do anything… Anything. Those horns, dude, just _no_.”

His arms can’t quite wrap around Sam’s shoulders, but that’s not so bad because with a degree of wriggling of his own Dean manages to just about immerse himself in the longer hair that shags over Sam’s body, and it’s pretty fucking warm. Apparently yaks can double as furnaces. Dean surreptitiously buries his face in the shorter, softer fur around Sam’s ruff. It doesn’t smell that bad. Not like _Sam_, but just like animal. Not like Sam’s been wandering around in a field full of shit for most of his life. No wonder the herd had followed that crazy were-hillbilly like the pied piper.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/44115.html  
> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1057837.html


End file.
